


Sick Day

by mrshays



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel Has A Cold, Dean Gets A Cold, Dean Winchester Takes Care of Castiel, Domestic, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Husbands, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pet Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:27:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22357180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrshays/pseuds/mrshays
Summary: Dean and Castiel spend a quiet evening together just as Castiel’s starting to recover from a cold. Dedicated to anyone who’s gotten sick because their S.O. is also sick.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 5
Kudos: 96





	Sick Day

**Author's Note:**

> A quick anecdote about this story: 
> 
> I used the word baleful originally because I thought it meant something like pathetic, or feeling sorry for oneself and wanting to garner sympathy, or sort-of pitiful, but still redeeming. I've always associated this word with cows, for no real reason, except maybe it sounds like haybales or doe-eyed? I don't know, honestly. 
> 
> In actuality, baleful means threatening harm or menacing. I figure it still works in the story because sometimes you want to murder someone when they've interrupted your nap and you're feeling crappy, and you know they didn't mean to, but you're not feeling exactly rational. 
> 
> So please, enjoy the story and let me know in the comments if there are any words you've mistakenly attributed to farm animals.

The door snicked open, near-silent, as Dean let himself into the apartment. The low groan coming from the living room made him cringe as he let the door close on silent hinges. Toeing off his work boots, he placed his wallet and keys on the entryway table. Steeling himself, he let his shoulders sag in sympathetic remorse and turned left into the living room, to greet his couch-ridden husband with a warm smile.

“Hey, honeybee. Feeling any better?”

The rumpled lump on the couch turned baleful blue eyes upon him, and Dean took that as his cue to shut the hell up and help instead. He took stock of the living room – Castiel’s permanent residence since he’d caught a head cold from his co-worker three days before – tissues, thermometer, cough drop wrappers, and the nasty-tasting homeopathic ichor that Cas insisted he buy from the fancy grocery store across town littered every available surface. He circled back to the kitchen, dropped his lunch containers in the sink, and grabbed the trashcan from beside the fridge.

Five minutes later, the living room was reset and Castiel hadn’t moved a single inch but for his eyes which kept careful watch over Dean’s every movement. Dean left to return the trashcan and came back a few minutes later with cold-damp hands and a mug of steaming tea - also from the fancy grocery store. The mug was sat on the coffee table and the coffee table was carefully moved several inches closer to the couch, so Cas didn’t have to overreach when he wanted a sip. Dean spared a glance at Cas, caught the way his eyes softened at their edges, and leaned over to place a gentle kiss on dark ruffled hair, made heavy with sedentary sickness.

“You good for now? Blink once for ‘yes,’” Dean smiled and let his hand rest against Cas’s shoulder, a light comfort. Castiel gave the requisite blink and Dean stole one more kiss before easing himself into the armchair.

Illness brought a sort of calm serenity to their home that was rarely seen. There was usually background noise running until bedtime: Dean’s classic rock station while he banged around making dinner, or Castiel’s podcast while he pieced together the puzzle laid out across most of the dining room table. In the evenings, it was the nightly news followed by four episodes of _Dr. Sexy, M.D._ – it was Dean’s sixth re-watch and Cas’s fourth. When one of them was sick, though, the house was silent, save for the lamentations of the surely-dying.

Dean flipped the footrest on the armchair and grabbed his worn copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five_ from the side table, flicking on the lamplight and opening to the earmarked page. At the close of each chapter, Dean peeked at Castiel: watched him nap for a bit, then wake himself up snoring, then sipping his cooled tea. Sometime between chapters eight and nine, he got up to use the bathroom and stumbled back into the living room to sit upright on the couch. Dean marked his page and got up to start dinner.

He warmed the from-scratch chicken noodle soup on the stove, anchored the bowls on two plates and split a sleeve of saltines between them. He grabbed a beer for himself and poured Cas a glass of orange juice and turned with the plates to find his husband propped on a stool at their breakfast bar, the afghan from the couch draped over his shoulders and hair in utter disarray. Dean sat the plate in front of him and placed his own on the counter, so they could face each other to eat. Dean dipped a cracker into his broth, and Cas picked up his bowl to sip its contents. A moment later, he set the bowl back on to the plate and proceeded to crush every single one of his crackers into the bowl, making the soup into more of a slurry.

“I’m miserable but better. Thank you for taking care of me,” Castiel rasped. Dean thought he did sound less like he was on his deathbed than yesterday. “I still hate you for not getting sick.”

“Fair,” Dean agreed with a smirk. He didn’t let on that his throat had started to feel a little tingly in the last twenty minutes.

They finished dinner and Dean took the rest of his beer into the living room after Cas dragged himself from the barstool. Sat heavily on one side of the couch, Cas made room for Dean and turned on the TV, volume at its lowest bearable tenor. “Nurse Piccolo was trapped in the elevator with Nurse Ballesteros if I remember correctly.” 

Dean sat down and put his arm around Castiel, pulling him in for a kiss, then resting his head on Cas’s shoulder, easing into a more comfortable position against him. “Yup. I really wished they’d just make out already. The tension is _killing_ me.”

“You know that never happens.”

“A guy can dream,” Dean sighed, letting himself slide down Castiel’s side to rest his head in his husband’s lap.

Castiel ran his fingers through Dean’s hair, tugging a little at the ends, “I jinxed you over dinner, didn’t I?”

“Nah, I’m good,” Dean hummed, denying the truth. He reached for Castiel’s discarded mug and finished the tea at the bottom, letting the honeyed dregs soothe his sore throat. Castiel harrumphed, and let his fingers scratch tiny circles along Dean’s scalp until his eyes closed and he drifted through the episode. At some point, he realized he was sleeping more than paying attention to the sexy nurses and nudged Dean awake. "Bedtime, c'mon, my foot's asleep."

Dean groaned and buried his face in Castiel's stomach for a minute before giving up and letting himself roll off the couch. Castiel folded the afghan and Dean chugged a dose of ichor straight from the bottle while his back was turned. He gagged and Castiel turned a critical eye to him. 

"I'd say something now, but I'll wait till the morning when you'll regret it more."

"You're mean." 

"I love you."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean groused, digging his phone from his pocket to text his foreman that he'd be out sick.

"C'mon, we can go make out in bed before you banish yourself to the couch tomorrow." Castiel reached a hand down to help Dean stand up. 

"Now _that's_ an idea I can get behind." 

Dean grinned and followed Castiel back to their bedroom, fully intending to make the most of the few hours they had before his own cold set in.


End file.
